easy come, easy go
by acid.glue234
Summary: You thought, maybe, if they knew you were like them, it would stop. You came out, for yourself, but you came out for them as well. Maybe knowing their own daughter was gay would change their outlook, change their minds, change their hearts.


**easy come, easy go**

* * *

There was a lot of crying. Mostly from you. You checked her face; _only _from you. Her face was dry, yours wasn't. All she did was stare. Stare and wait. Your whole body shook, you cried, tears. Too many tears.

She continued to stare and wait. The words were at the tip of your tongue, but they wouldn't release. You needed release. Release.

"I think I'm gay."

She continued to stare. Her eyes briefly widened; she was surprised. It came out of nowhere. Nowhere. After you witnessed her jaw clench, you had to look away.

"What makes you think you're gay, Santana?" Her voice was hollow, lacking emotion, feeling, vulnerability, love. She was just curious, just like you.

Shrug.

You didn't have an answer. You didn't have an answer. You didn't want to speak anymore. You had finally gotten that off your chest. All you wanted was for her to know, but you didn't want to dissect the whole damn thing.

Those words were possibly the hardest you ever had to speak. You've choked on them multiple times before. Too many times. They felt like vomit arising in your throat, but you said them.

You said them, you said them fast and with as much conviction as you could muster, though it still shook, and those words, they didn't make you feel as free as everyone else said. They didn't make you feel as light or relieved as everyone else said.

You weren't expecting a hug or a kiss or a smile after this confession. You weren't expecting acceptance either. All you wanted was for her to know.

You did it for yourself. Living in the closet, pretending to be someone you're not in your own home; it was too much for you to take.

Hearing your father bad mouth gays and lesbians, transsexuals, bisexuals, homosexuals; anyone who wasn't like him. Anyone who sinned, lived a life of sin, loved a life of sin, because it was the only way.

The only way for them to love whoever they wanted, be whoever they wanted, and live the life so many people tried to take away from them.

You thought, maybe, if they knew you were like them, it would stop. You came out, for yourself, but you came out for them as well. Maybe knowing their own daughter was gay would change their outlook, change their minds, change their hearts.

All it did was change their perspective of you.

"Do you..." your mother trailed off warily, squeezing the bridge of her nose. "Are you attracted to a girl at your school, Santana? Is that why you think you're gay?"

You didn't speak. All of a sudden, it felt like you were being attacked. It felt like you were being judged. It was just a simple question yet all you could do was inwardly cringe.

Your mother was just curious, just like you, but you couldn't answer. The tears were still falling, your bottom lip was trembling, and you couldn't look your own mother in the eye anymore.

Your whole body was beginning to shut down; you were beginning to wish you never told her in the first place. Maybe it would've been better if you waited. Or maybe you could've just kept this secret forever.

She never had to know. No one did. Was it too late to take it back? Was it too late to say you were just kidding? Was it too late to be straight again?

"I'm trying to understand, hija," she pleaded with you, remaining perfectly still as not to scare you off. "Please, just talk to me. Have you even kissed a girl before?"

Bile rose in your throat. The sudden urge to throw up tickled at your stomach but you held it down.

There was a girl. A beautiful girl. She was beautiful and blonde and outgoing and beautiful. She did gymnastics and dance and she was just beautiful and...and...

But she wasn't what made you gay. Nothing made you gay. You don't know where it came from or when you came to this realization, but it's always been there, somewhere.

You once had a dream you were dressed like a boy; this was years ago. In the dream, you were kissing a girl and you were happy, content, but when you awoke, when you opened your eyes, you were scared and alone and ashamed, because that wasn't normal.

During elementary school, you would only hang out with the boys, playing football on the fields and basketball on the courts.

You'd get knocked around and bruised. Cuts and scrapes from the concrete would litter your skin, and you'd be proud. Especially when you'd get just as much attention from the other girls as the guys did. Sometimes even more so.

In middle school, when watching television, only the female characters would catch your eye; their long hair, round breasts, enticing curves, tempting bodies. Even the cartoons, and that made you feel even more horrible and more sick and more dirty.

You dressed like a girl, you acted like a girl, you felt like a girl, and most of your friends were girls. You were comfortable in your own skin as a girl, and you liked girls too. Girls, girls, girls. It was too much for you to take, so you ignored it, you buried it deep inside you, though it didn't stay put.

It haunted you like a fucking ghost.

You didn't know what it was at first. You still don't. You doubt you ever will. Whatever it was, it was always there.

It wasn't triggered by sex, because you're still a virgin. It wasn't triggered by a kiss, because you have never even kissed a girl before. It wasn't triggered at all; it was just...

Shrug.

"Santana..." your mother sighed, defeated.

"I don't want to talk about it."

You didn't recognize your own voice. You felt weak. You felt dirty and low and weak. Wasn't coming out suppose to make you stronger? Wasn't finally being yourself suppose to make you proud?

You didn't feel none of those. Somehow, you think you were stronger before coming out. You were braver, you had courage, you were ready to go out there and not care what anyone thought.

So, what had changed?

The look on your mother's face as she ducked her head and whispered, "You're not gay, Santana. You hear me? You're not gay,"

...that's what changed.

She didn't sound angry or upset or demanding. Her voice was so soft. Like a pillow, or clouds, or marshmallows. Her eyes were soft too. A little red from holding back tears, but they were so soft. She was just trying to understand, just like you.

Though she wasn't getting it.

You didn't argue with her. You don't like confrontation. You don't like conflict. You didn't argue with her, but you didn't agree either.

Shrug.

Sighing through her nose, your mother stood up from the couch and looked down on you. She looked down on you. "Gay people don't exist, Santana. Confused people do," she told you, nodding her head, urging you to nod along with her.

Shrug.

You weren't confused, she was. You were curious, you were trying to understand. Trying to understand why you were like this, trying to understand why people like your mother couldn't just accept life and love for what it was. Trying to understand why. Just why. Why.

"Are you going to tell Dad?"

She froze on her way out of the living room. Her shoulders rose as she released another sigh. Release.

Shrug.

This time, it came from her. You remained silent as she continued out of the room, down the hallway, and out of sight.

You thought her departure would finally help you breathe again, but her shrug made you feel claustrophobic. She was going to tell your father, you knew that for a fact.

And this had you crying yet again, tears raking down your cheeks, creating dry tracks in their wake. This had you wishing you could take it all back, but at the same time, hoping you never had that wish again.

_The End._

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**A/N: It's almost been a year since I came out to my mom. Maybe it will get better soon. Thanks for reading.**


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